The Manipulator
by phoenixi-sksl
Summary: John leaves to go and stay at his current girlfriend's house. Left alone, Sherlock decides to have a drink, but everything goes sour when a familiar face stops by. Forced into a situation purely to save John - again - will the detective be able to keep him safe? Definitely NSFW after the first chapter, Jimlock, Johnlock if you squint? Hm. (Finally off hiatus. -Finally.-)


**I am so sorry. I left this poor thing in the dust for EVER. Nine whole months of supposed 'Chap Two's here tomorrow!'. I'm a terrible person, eh? Because of how long it's been, this first chap, getting a bit redone to make it feel more smooth, so old readers, have a quick recap, new readers, hey, gimme a review. It fuels my fires. Literally. I live in a volcano, duh.**

**And again, whoops I suck, so-ree!**

* * *

"Sherlock? Going out to Marie's for the night, remember?" John stood in the doorway, tapping his watch in order to keep it going and fiddling with the edge of his jacket.

"You did mention it. Several times. Along with words along the lines of 'don't tell me anything about her' and 'I'd rather find out myself'. Though that's an idiotic and senseless plan, since it would be more understandable for me to tell you of any discrepancy beforehand -"

"No, Sherlock. For maybe the millionth time? No. No, no, no. But I really have to get going now, so I'll just remind you a few things - no experiments, no drugs and no suicide, and keep any lashing out to a minimum. And please have something to eat or drink, since I assume you haven't in a while and it makes you all irritated and a bit bitchy and generally a twat and -"

"I get the point."

"I should hope so. Anyway, I'd best be off now. Going on the Tube." John stepped out of the flat.

"No taxi?"

"Like I'd ever trust a cabbie after what happened the last time? Please." The door snapped shut behind John, who shouted a quick "Bye!" as he left. Sherlock immediately rolled off the sofa, landing awkwardly between it and the side of the coffee table before heading towards the kitchen. He knew he was going to be bored. He didn't like food, he wasn't going to sleep and he wasn't even allowed to blow anything up? Boredom never seemed so... boring. He went over to the drinks cabinet, the one full of weird-tasting liquors and wines Mycroft had sent over in an attempt to show him some culture, although if it weren't for John, they'd probably all have been mixed and experimented with by now. Maybe even a few explosions.

Sherlock reached for the nearest bottle, a normal-sized glass bottle (most of them were glass, and it seemed such a waste when plastic could do just as well) filled with bizarrely bright green liquid. Midori, the label said, 20% alcohol. Pretty strong for a grown-up Fruit Shoot, Sherlock though, as he grabbed a small glass from the side, ready to fill. Before that, he felt a buzzing in his pocket and was about to question the friendliness, and also ninja skills, of the bees that one of the houses across the road kept, when he realized it was just his phone.

_It's been a while._ -?

"...The hell is this...?" Sherlock wondered out loud as he scanned the display for any information he could gather - a number he'd never seen before, no signature or style of writing... nothing to go on. John would have no reason to send such a text, given that he'd been gone for all of three minutes, and even if he hadn't it wasn't his style to be cryptic anyway; Irene would have ended with Let's have dinner or some other flirtatious innuendo; Mrs. Hudson... no... And Molly didn't actually have his number, as far as he remembered - and again, not her style anyway. Though it could always be...

"No. That... that doesn't... doesn't make any fucking _sense_!" Sherlock gripped his head in an unexpected daze, especially considering he hadn't actually drank any of the Midori yet - though that sentiment could be thrown out of the window, since Sherlock regained his composure to ignore the glass and take a light swig of the strong liquor. Alcohol could confuse oneself, yes, but perhaps a little could be of use - if Sherlock was confused now, he doubted the drink would do any more damage. Especially if -

Another buzz.

_Apologies. You're probably all confuddled, aren't you? Well, you needn't be much longer. I'm just passing by, and what can I say, I've missed seeing you face to face. See you in, oh, an hour?_ -JM

"JM... that's... are you serious? Hell..." Sherlock fell back into a chair, pulling the bottle of Midori with him, now missing about a quarter of its contents. The stuttering was now more the fault of the alcohol than the shock, and it caused Sherlock to fumble with the keys of the phone, sending a reply.

_Is it really you? How could it be you? Who is this, really?_ -SH

The next message came soon.

_Of course it's me - how could I not be me? Though I don't have to be me, if you'd prefer._ -JM

"The fuck is that supposed to mean? Come on, tell me!" Sherlock half-shouted, half-panted down the phone, as if Moriarty could just speak back instantly.

In fact, he did.

Well, in a text, naturally.

_Well, I'll be over in - oh, look at the time! Doesn't it just fly when I'm here, Sherly? Half an hour, and I'll be right there. Just you wait._ -JM

"Oh, great. I can't wait..."

* * *

With just three minutes to go, Sherlock was in a complete state. His hair wasn't its usual curly, it was just a tangled mess; his eyes clouded over every time he tried to focus and the bottle of liquor was nowhere to be seen, although that was just because Sherlock had thrown it out of the window, satisfied as it shattered into pieces in the backyard. The last droplets of the intoxicating liquid had splattered out, pouring against the fence panels.

Two minutes to go.

_I could just run away_, Sherlock thought, _and not have to deal with the bastard, since it's not like he could follow me. I still have time to - no..._

Ninety seconds.

_But why is he just coming to visit? It's like he's not being the great, evil consulting criminal anymore..._

Seventy seconds.

_...he's more like Jim from I.T..._

Sixty seconds.

_...And why all so sudden? What's so special about today? Did he know John was going out? Does he need to see me alone?_

Forty-five seconds.

_Why? What does he want? I haven't got anything he needs, really. Does he need an apple? We have some, I think..._

Thirty seconds.

_Oh, but this is St. Bart's all over again. He still wants to burn me up or something... speaking of which, is that heartburn? Agh..._

Twenty seconds.

_I don't want to face this shit again. I need my blogger. Or just to be sober, that'd do._

Ten.

_I'll just not let him in. Then he can't do a thing to hurt me and then -_

The doorbell rang. Sherlock jumped out of his seat, almost smacking his head on the edge of the arm on his way down. Scrambling to his feet, he gulped as he grabbed onto the door handle for stability. There was absolutely no reason why he should let Moriarty into 221B Baker Street.

But he just couldn't stop himself in time.

"Well, that was a lot easier than I expected! I take it you're tired or something. John always did say you should sleep more often, didn't he?" Jim Moriarty's overly zealous voice sounded throughout the whole apartment, chilling and yet oddly relaxing to the detective. "And where is John, exactly?"

"He's gone t-to some woman for the night."

"And you didn't tell him why he shouldn't?"

"Would-dn't let me."

"Tell me, then."

"Five years o-older than she says s-she is, pr-previously arrested on domestic c-crime, chain smoker, isn't really a-an accountant, wears too much makeup." Sherlock rattled the problems off like a shopping list, and Jim smirked at the drunken slurring every few words.

"You know, when John says you're supposed to have a drink, I don't think he meant a drink-drink, if you know what I mean."

"Shut the hell up, Jim."

"Oh, and look how tough it's made you! I wouldn't if I were you..." Jim's smirk spread into a wide grin. "After all, remember what happened before?"

"W-what, exactly?"

"You don't remember? You know, when all of your friends were about to get a bit filled with bullets and you jumped off the roof to help out?"

Sherlock sobered up slightly at the memory. "And?"

"What if I were to say you were basically in that situation again, although the requirements were a little less... suicidal? As in, you don't need to invent a master plan to escape, or anything."

"Go on."

"Well, you see, I have a feeling that your little Johnny boy's in a bit of a mix-up, and that Marie actually went on a nice little vacation to the South of France a short time before John left this very apartment."

Sherlock swallowed the saliva building up in his throat.

"And that, say, he's a bit trapped in what we might call a traffic jam... but who's got him trapped, you say? Oh, look, it's the little sniper army from out of nowhere! What a... _pleasant_... surprise." The look on Jim's face was somewhat obvious to read, if only Sherlock wasn't so off his face that he could barely see straight.

"Don't you fucking dare do this again, you-"

"But like I said, there's a lot less to worry about this time. No suicide ploys, no code words, no anything. All I want is a little... cooperation, I suppose?"

"What are you talking about?" It was fortunate that Sherlock had regained the ability to form coherent sentences again, although his common sense and eyes were a while away yet. Otherwise, he might have been able to work out how little Jim was trying with the act, and was actually not far off from laughing openly at the detective.

"Well. I guess you might call it a... what's the word... _experiment_?" A glint of something sinister appeared in Jim's eyes, though it would have been a miracle if Sherlock had managed to spot it. Instead, he merely coughed a little, and continued the conversation.

"An experiment?"

"Yes, I suppose. I've been told that there are very few things that you lack experience of, yes? Well, there's a specific one of those things that I'd like to test you upon. Which is why there's no time limit, since there's no knowing how long this will take." Jim's smile had an edge to it now, unnoticeable by the drunken detective, but painfully obvious to anyone else who might have seen (though nobody did).

"How long what will take?"

"What, you haven't worked it out yet? You might be wasted, but you can't be that thick. But fine, let's do this the fun way. Close your eyes."

"I don't trust you."

"Remember your little blogger, Sherlock." That was all it took. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, so tight that he'd probably find it hard to breathe when he opened them... if he remembered to.

* * *

The pitch black combined with the knowledge of - well, nothing - and the effect of the Midori was more than enough to worry Sherlock. He had no idea what Moriarty was going to do, and while that isn't really different from usual, it was a more sudden kind of not-knowing, a kind of blankness that made Sherlock feel far more vulnerable than usual.

The first effect he felt was the light, tickling breath that began at the base of his neck. Was that Moriarty? What was he doing? Or was there someone else? With the blood pumping in his ears, it was hard to hear anything else. The breath seemed to slide around, facing Sherlock's throat and causing the detective to feel unusually warm. But the touch on his neck was replaced by a warm hand, soft and caressing, and Sherlock's inner warmth was most likely manifesting on his cheeks and tips of his ears, in the form of scarlet blush.

By this point, Sherlock's drunkenness seemed to have almost completely gone - coherent words, thoughts and eyesight (though that was a bit pointless and hard to tell right now, given his current state) were all at hand, and the only thing he needed now was common sense, although that couldn't be too far away. Which is why, when he heard a whispery voice down his ear, telling him to "open his mouth", he obliged in an instant.

It still didn't stop him from being surprised when he felt Moriarty's lips press against his. And that didn't stop him from being completely still. It was only when he felt a hand dart lightly up the back of his shirt, at the same time the tip of Jim's tongue brushed against his own, that the drowsy effect finally disappeared, and Sherlock, instantly understanding exactly what Jim was trying to do, pulled himself out of the criminal's grasp and rolled away.

"Is something the matter?"

"What... what the fuck are you doing? The hell is wrong with you, I -" Sherlock was cut off as the fellow observer quickly rolled across, pinning the detective down, hand clutching at the material of the shirt he was wearing and hovering his face right in front of the other's.

"What a pity. I thought you'd be under the influence at least a little longer. But I suppose I have no choice, now. I'd better make the call."

"Don't you dare hurt John!"

Jim stopped. When he'd said that, he meant call Seb to bring the car and take him away, but if he could play this out even without the alcohol... He grinned his Cheshire-Cat smile again, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You don't want your precious little blogger to die, do you?"

"...I'd do anything to keep him safe."

That was all Moriarty had been waiting to hear. He slid his hand up over Sherlock's face, over his head and settled in his curls, fiddling with them slightly. "Well, in order to keep Captain Laptop alive, you'd better do exactly as I say. Any disorder, he's done for. Understood?"

Sherlock knew when he was beaten. "I... whatever it takes to keep John alive."

_Of course, he'd be too busy worrying over John to scan me for lies_, Jim thought._ He doesn't think there's even the slightest chance I could be lying. Oh, I'd pity him, if it weren't me that was going to do this..._

"Good boy. Let's go upstairs, shall we?"

* * *

***casually falls out of a window* IT'S BEEN TOO LONG. Anyway, I swear, I _swear _by the end of tomorrow you'll have a new chapter. I swear to it, pinky promise, sacrifice-a-virgin-to-Satan pray that you'll be forgiving. As it is, it's two a.m again and I won't end up like last time, 'kay? See you so very soon...**


End file.
